


seeking your right name

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 16:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16044530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: Beleg had his reasons for seeking Turin after the Man left Doriath, but -it seems that Turin had more than one reason he left as well.





	seeking your right name

Once he has been untied Beleg flexes his fingers, slow at first and then with a little more speed, relieved that being tied so poorly and for so long does not seem to have affected the digits in any way that will not heal. “Never let it be said that I am not grateful to have been released, but you did take your time about it – Neithan, was it?”

Turin – for it is indeed Turin whom he has finally found, apparently the leader of this ragtag group of Men who had surprised him and bound him to a tree – narrows his eyes grimly. If Beleg knows him at all, the young Man is wondering whether this statement signifies a betrayal: wondering whether Beleg means to disclaim the name that Turin has given him in front of such an audience – Neithan – and call him by his own instead.

But Turin surprises him, for he does not voice these suspicions at all, or even entreat Beleg not to speak.  

“Neithan it is, but never mind that. You of all people I will not have mistreated among my company: you of all people deserve the warmest thanks and welcome that this poor place and poorer party can offer.” Turin then turns to those whom he has claimed to be his own, and Beleg is surprised once more to see this new evidence that the youth he remembers has apparently grown into a leader of men. “Who did this thing?”

The men mutter and sputter and shuffle, and Turin, shoulders tight with anger, huffs in impatience – a gesture so recognizable, so familiar, that it causes Beleg a greater pang than had the too-tight ropes. Every line of Turin’s back, now turned towards Beleg in a show of breath-taking trust as he confronts his men, is wound high and tight with restrained anger; his voice rises in volume but not in pitch. But his fists at his side no longer clench involuntarily, as they had when he was angered as a child, and Beleg is struck anew as he realizes that he doesn’t know who, or what, had finally taught Turin that he could no longer give away his reactions so readily.

In such a short time away from Doriath Turin has changed so much, and yet – at the same time he has not changed at all. As he harangues his men it becomes obvious to Beleg that he is still impetuous, and headstrong, and apt to put all his heart and soul into everything he does whether merited or not.

He is still the Turin whom Beleg had come from Doriath to find, and yet – he is not that Turin at all, is he.

With a grunt, Beleg struggles to his feet, pushes himself to standing – and with another pang yet he notices that Turin’s stance does not waver at all at the sound.

So. Still Turin trusts him, though he must suspect that Beleg yet has ties with Elu Thingollo, whose justice Turin had fled. And even when he does not know what Beleg is doing behind him, Turin keeps himself placed between the Sinda and his own men, and grills them seeking a culprit to punish for what he sees as mistreatment rather than the usual due of a prisoner.

Beleg is – staggered. It was his own affection and care for the youth he remembered from Thingollo’s court that had driven him from Doriath in search of Turin; this proud yet somehow familiar Man is hardly who, or what, he had expected to find out here in the wildlands.

“Neithan,” he says, quietly, Turin’s false name sitting heavy on his tongue like so much unwanted, ill-cooked meat. “I am not much hurt, and your men could not have known that I came in good faith, if I could not even speak to them of my errand.”

It is not typically meet to criticize a commander’s leadership of his men where those men can hear it, but nothing about this situation is typical. And Beleg must have Turin’s attention back somehow.

“Neithan?”

He is steady enough on his feet now that he can come up behind Turin, and he notices with a thrill that still the Man does not turn or start. And oh, but it seems that Turin has finally reached his full height: the Man now stands tall enough that the crown of his head comes just past Beleg’s own chin.

He is the same Turin, Beleg promises himself, even as he can see that perhaps this is not quite true after all.

He is Turin. He is Turin. He is still Beleg’s Turin.

“I will deal with you later,” the Man standing before Beleg promises his men, obviously still wroth that he does not know who had restrained the Sinda. “And you,” this Man tells Beleg, _finally finally_ turning back to face him, “must come with me, and explain your supposed errand in more detail.”

His face is unshaven; his nose and cheeks are red with the cold. His eyes blaze, and his mouth is pursed with more than one form of hurt and anger.

He is magnificent. He is Turin.

And Beleg follows him without a word when he beckons.

He is surprised again when Turin leads him a ways away from the outlaw camp – and then, so suddenly that even Beleg would have been hard-pressed to predict the movement, turns and swiftly gathers him into a powerful embrace that nearly presses the breath from Beleg’s lungs.

He is Turin. He is most certainly still Beleg’s Turin.

Beleg returns the gesture with willing and tightened arms, one hand rising to rest between Turin’s shoulders and the other to cup the back of his head: Turin’s arms clenched tight about his waist, he cradles Turin against his chest much as he had often done for the child whom this Man had once been. And for all his new height, their new circumstances – for all the years and the uncertainties that now lie between them – Turin still folds into this embrace, fully and willingly as ever: tucks his curly head beneath Beleg’s chin and buries his face into the timeworn furs that frame Beleg’s chest, and breathes deep.

“Beleg,” he whispers. His voice stirs the furs, and his breath warms Beleg’s skin beneath them. “My best, my oldest – and sometimes, I think, my only – friend. What are you doing here? Why have you come?”

There have been so many ways that Beleg envisioned this meeting, this moment, proceeding: Turin found injured, Turin found hiding, Turin found waiting. And for each of those imaginings Beleg had practiced a certain way of phrasing things: a turn of speech precisely calculated to coax Turin from whatever situation Beleg might find him in.

But each and every one of those plans dissipates like so much morning mist when Turin is actually in his arms, and in the end it is only the words nearest and most important to Beleg’s heart that remain to him.

“I have come to bring you home,” he whispers in turn, the words breathed softly into that head of much-beloved curls.

For a heartbeat Turin stiffens within his arms, and feeling this Beleg’s heart skips a beat: then, some inner turmoil subdued or dismissed, Turin relaxes again, and Beleg’s heart can resume its normal tempo.

“I cannot go home with you,” Turin says softly, turning ever so slightly so that his face is no longer pressed to the furs of Beleg’s gear but only his cheek; his words now slip free into the cold winter air, but even said this way they are no easier for Beleg to hear or accept. “You must know that I cannot, Beleg – I drove a man to his death for the slightest of insults, and there will be no mercy for me under the law of the king should I return.”

Beleg’s arms tighten still further. So much, _so much_ , is wrong with this.

“That is not the story I have heard,” he replies, striving to match the quiet tone of Turin’s admission if not the pain of it – Beleg has not a whit of sympathy for the dead Saeros. “By all accounts he offered you grave insult, and you could not have known that the gorge lay directly ahead of your shared flight. And all who witnessed the first part of the story testified for your restraint: you did not move against him until utterly provoked. And all who witnessed the end testified for your intent: you did not drive him over that cliff as a premeditated end. The law of the king would show you mercy: this much I am assured of.”  

“And it does not disturb _you_ that I killed a man?” Turin asks, the back of his head pushing against Beleg’s hand as he attempts to draw back – to survey Beleg’s face, perhaps. “I am not a monster in your eyes for this deed, for having become all but a kinslayer in this act against my foster-father’s own?”

His voice has lost all its previous authority, all its former show. He is still a man full-grown, and a Man whom Beleg is not sure he fully knows any longer, but now – now Beleg can see, can hear, echoes of the child and the youth Turin was once more.

And Turin makes no mention of the king’s law, now; he protests no more that others think ill of him.

He names only Beleg. He asks only what Beleg thinks of him.

Is this – is _this_ what had driven him away?

Beleg loosens his grip just enough that Turin may pull back and see his face, the emotions it holds. And whatever it is that he sees there, Turin’s grey eyes widen: but neither of them look away.

“It is no matter what you do, Turin – you will never be monstrous to me,” Beleg tells him, soft and low and fierce, and profoundly grateful that now, finally, he may use the Man’s right name once more. “I care not who you killed, or even why, and perhaps that should not be so, but there it is. I care only for your well-being, and that is as it has always been – as it always will be.”

“Truly?” Turin asks, slightly bewildered. Still his eyes, grey and bright and lost, bore into Beleg’s, even now unafraid of whatever it is that he must face and prepared to face this unknown full-on. “Beleg, why?”

Long has Beleg kept the words to himself, and near as long as that has he wondered if he ever might find the way and place and right to say them.

But now, it seems, all things are here – time and words and place – and so he does.

“It is for the love I bear you, Turin, and that love will not see you slandered, or unhappy, or ill-used in any way. And if your peace of mind means that you will not return to Doriath, then my love will abide with you here, if you will have it; or if you would be content to return if only you were assured of me, or of the court, or of anything at all, then you need but tell me so.”

Turin’s brow begins to furrow as he takes this in, and Beleg, content with having said it, simply waits to see what he will do.

But Turin does not withdraw, or pull out of his grasp; indeed, after a moment longer, he leads forward into Beleg’s body again with a soft sigh.

And as Turin’s arms return to his waist, to their first grip, then too Beleg clasps him tight as before.

“What contradictions, my dearest friend,” he murmurs, face pressed to Beleg’s furs once more, but in their title of old for one another Beleg hears no rejection, only much thought. “I feel as though I should be surprised, and yet – is this not just how you have always cared for me?”

Then a flash of the Man whom Beleg does not quite know yet shines through once more as Turin, still pressed against him, gently commands his next words still. “No, no – shhhhh. No more words: let us just be still a moment longer. I do not know yet what you mean by this – a father’s love for his son, a soldier’s love for his shieldmate, a man’s love for his partner – and I beg you do not tell me just yet, for Beleg, I wish to think on how I love you too.”

Beleg must make some sound at this though, for now Turin draws back again, and there is a light in his eyes that only grows brighter when he smiles. “Oh, no, there is no doubt about that much, dear friend. I know I love you, and I am _fairly_ sure that I know _how_ , but – it is good to hear it said, is it not? Yes, that is just the jump that my heart gave upon hearing you say so too.”

“Turin. . .”

“Only where the men cannot hear us,” Turin warns about his own name, mocking-stern. “Now, Beleg – whatever we are and whatever we decide that we may be, it is not too much to ask a kiss now, is it?”

It is not too much, it is not too much _at all,_ and Beleg is more than pleased to show Turin thus – at length, and as many times as Turin asks.


End file.
